Please
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: Drug use. Sherlock and John have moved in together after university, and they're best friends. Sherlock has discovered heroin and John gives him everything he can. Basically entirely angst. One sided Sherlock slash John. Sherlock's unrequited love for John (surprise, surprise). Dark, obviously.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, oh God, please stop. Please." And I'm kneeling in front of him, with him, on the rough carpet. It scratches through the thin fabric of my pyjama pants. I reach out for him, his wrists. Rub the skin, smooth and warm against the pads of my thumbs and I can't look him in the eyes because please, if I don't look, it doesn't have to be there. So I look at his collar bones, protruding sharp, skin stretched tight and thin and tinged grey. And his ribs, and I can almost feel the hollowness of his bones, and his stomach. Because there is a hole. An emptiness inside me, too. Doesn't he know? He should. It is so obvious. He sees everything. And maybe he'll listen and I can stop feeling like the space inside my chest is full of bile.

"Please Sherlock, please."

Please.

"God, Sherlock just stop."

No more. You're dragging me with you, Sherlock. I can't help but follow you into that abyss.

Please.

And we're so young, so very young. And you are brilliant. A blazing, burning mass of light. You spit and you consume and you burn. But you burn so very brightly. All the light of a dying sun.

If I don't look, it doesn't have to be there.

Please. _Please._

"Please."

But it is there, and I meet your eyes, and your fantastic blue is all consuming, apart from two pricks of pupil.

And all the breath I have ever inhaled is trapped in my chest, aching and I'm choking on nothing at all. And the word loses all meaning. Begins to contort on my tongue because I am useless. You are too far gone. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Please Sherlock."

Please.

But your eyes continue to stare straight ahead, nothing but white and blue and dots of black. And now the skin that I have to tighten my grip on, is sliding against my fingers and I can feel the track marks against my palm, my fingers. Everywhere.

"Sherlock." I say it like a curse, like a prayer. I rip it from my throat like it can mean something. It tears along the flesh. It leaves my throat rough and aching with the blinding grey swirl of tears.

Please.

* * *

**A.N. I don't own Sherlock.**

**Well, that was depressing. And there's more (oh joy). Sorry**

**I should really be working on ****_Knowing Sherlock Holmes _****right now. But this was writing itself in my head and it was getting distracting, so it got written. *sigh***


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey everyone! Apparently I'm very good at getting things done when its something that I'm not expected to do. So here's some more angst. Sorry about the first/second person change in the first chapter. I know that was probably annoying. There's none of that in this chapter, I promise. **

He comes into my room later. Down from the high.

Its dark and his breaths scrape against the heavy stillness of the air. Quick, short.

There are no words as the bed indents. Only the sourness of his breath against my jaw, my cheek, my lips.

I break the air, "Sherlock, what are you doing?" A whisper. He knows that I know.

"Please." It is not so much a word as it is the sensation of lips against my skin. A nothing breath.

And he presses his lips to mine, smothering slowly with a burning heat. He sucks in harsh air at the contact, and my inhale is caught against the insides of my throat. I don't want this. I don't, I can't. But there is nothing I can do for him, except, maybe - this. Sherlock is my friend, I can do this for my friend. So I lean back, relaxing, for him. And he takes the invitation, moving to kneel on either side of my thighs, opening his mouth, hot and dark and desperate. Choking on a sob that is lost against my lips. And his breath is stale and sharp and his tongue is wet with the taste of salt and it takes me a second to realise that our skin is wet with tears.

He is uncoordinated, and it doesn't seem to bother him that I don't kiss back. That I can't. I am only pliant, and he takes what he needs because this is all I can give him.

He pulls back, after minutes. His silhouette is a shadow in the darkness of the night. His fingernails leave pink trails on the back of my neck, resting half moons in the flesh.

His eyes catch the glimmer of the moon from the window and the contours of his his face are deepened and softened by the night and we breath together. Gasping.

And it might not just be his own tears that are cooling on my cheeks. He is falling apart and gripping me so close, like I am holding him up. But I know that he is tipping us both over the edge. We both know that I will follow him anywhere.

His lips are back on mine, searching, hungry. Long fingers gripping my neck, my shoulders. Mouthing down the trail. Lips numbing and teeth scraping against my skin. "Please."

I don't know why he's asking. I'll do anything for him.

My hands move up to rest on his hipbones. Thin and sharp. Maybe if I grip him tight enough, he'll stay with me. Even if its like this. Even if I have to do this forever.

Maybe this will be enough for him

Maybe I can be enough for him.

* * *

**Oh gosh, I don't know where this came from. Sorry. I'll go write some fun teen!lock now. Bye.**


End file.
